


Scraps of Paper

by pinkpolaroidgrl



Category: Harry Styles - Fandom, One Direction (Band)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-06-19 12:06:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15509505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkpolaroidgrl/pseuds/pinkpolaroidgrl
Summary: Mirai doesn't like public speaking, but she likes poetry. Harry is in NYC for the winter.





	Scraps of Paper

**Author's Note:**

> This is a slightly rewritten version of something I posted on Tumblr ages ago. First fic I've written in years - still feeling my way around words again. This one is for fellow Harry fan & book lover Felicia.

_“..that shaded space /_  
_Beyond the stairs /_  
_Where we stood.”_

Mirai stops, draws an unsteady breath, and looks up. The crowd is difficult to make out with the lights in her eyes, but he is there again today. His face is half-lit by the green exit sign, but the faint light is all she needs to recognise him. This is the sixth time this month that he’s come to one of her performances at the Basilica. He always arrives late and stands right by the exit door, ready to slip out the moment she finishes her slot. Tall, broad-shouldered, and always very very still. They have never spoken or even interacted, so Mirai doesn’t really understand why his presence calms her nerves, but it does.

 _“You said we looked /_  
_like scraps of paper..”_

The next time she looks for him, he is gone.

–

She’s always hated public speaking.

Poetry slams had been Mirai’s way of dealing with her social anxiety issues, but doing poetry slams is one thing: you can feed off the crowd’s energy, respond to the way they react to a snappy rhyme or a sudden turn. The spotlight shields your eyes from anybody who might frown or look bored, and if you bomb, someone else will step on stage after you and change the mood. Doing a reading in a small bookshop is a very different beast. There is nowhere to hide, no one to pick you up if you fail. It is both terrifying and exhilarating. Mirai is standing in front of maybe twenty people and every single face is visible. Some of the faces are familiar – her sister, a couple of friends, and a former co-worker – but mostly they are all strangers.

 _Jimena and Sally By The School-yard Fence_ is her first collection, and Mirai is proud of it. She’s self-funded the publication and, while the slim volume is little more than a zine, _School-yard Fence_ feels like a substantial step forward. The thirteen poems play off each other and add weight to words and phrases that had sometimes felt too fragile to perform on stage. Having The Word Shop offer to host the launch of her collection had felt like a real scoop at the time. Mirai would no longer be the Lower East Side girl who features regularly on the NYC slam scene. Mirai would become Mirai Gonzalo, a poet given the stamp of approval by one of the city’s best small-press bookshops.

In other words, if Mirai wants to break out of the chrysalis and transform into a poetic butterfly, she has to get through the next forty-five minutes of reading selections from _School-yard Fence_ and signing copies for anyone who wanted to buy one. Khalid introduces her and she is trying to remember to breathe.

Mirai is three lines into _By The Neck_ when the door to the shop opens and a tall man enters quietly. He smiles apologetically before sitting down on the chair next to the door. This is the first time she has seen him this close, let alone in daylight. She recognises him by two things: his silhouette and the calmness he creates in her. His face is new to her and, she feels odd admitting this to herself, but his face is so beautiful. Straightening her back, she slips back into her words, feeling them in her mouth.

His clear eyes are on her. She focuses on them rather than on the strangers in the front row. He leans forward as she reads “ _.. out of the city I come with my words .._ ” and his lips curls softly with recognition when she launches into _Tell The Grey Goose I Am Gone_. It is one of her favourite pieces to perform and she is sure he’s heard it before. His rapt attention should feel uncomfortable, too intense, but instead it feel like a hand on her back and a voice whispering you got this. She feeds off the attention and her voice is strong and warm.

\--

He hovers in the Translated Poetry section for twenty minutes before finally walking up to her signing table with two copies of _The School-yard Fence_.

“I’d love for you to sign these. Uhm, I’ve been to see you a few times at The Basilica slams. Really glad you read _Grey Goose_ today. It’s, uhm, it’s one of my favourites.”

The man’s voice is deep, slow, and surprisingly British. Mirai has spent an embarrassing amount of time thinking about him; in fact, she has constructed an entire life for someone she had only seen across a dark room – something that she partly blames on being a writer, partly on her boring day job. A British accent had never entered her mind. British people eat crumpets, drink tea, and wear tweed. They do not attend one poetry slam after another during a NYC winter. They are not incredibly hot.

“Oh, thank you. I think I remember seeing you at the one on Sunday. Up the back, yeah?” Her voice sounds amazingly normal and even. He nods and smiles again. He has dimples. She had not imagined dimples either. Behind her, Mirai’s sister clears her throat.

“So, what name shall I make it out to?”

She has to get him to spell his sister’s name twice. He has a really nice laugh.

–

“Oh my God, I cannot believe it. I breathed the same air as him. Do you know who that was, Mirai?” Her sister flings herself into The Word Shop’s only real arm chair.

“Who?” Mirai had known Celia would make a big deal of him, but she isn’t in the mood for any gentle teasing about good-looking strangers asking for her autograph. It’s been a long day and they need to clear away the folding chairs before Mirai can get home to her well-deserved bowl of pasta.

“That tall glass of water you couldn’t take your eyes off, stupid. The one with the chestnut brown curls, the green eyes, legs for days, and the Yves Saint Laurent coat that’d pay off your student loan. That guy. Harry Styles.”

Mirai shrugs. The name is familiar, sure, but not one she can place off-hand.

Khalid walks up to lock the door. “He’s in here a lot, Cee. He’s a good guy.”

“Not saying he’s not a good guy. I’m just saying that my sister needs to rein it. There are cute guys and then there are the gods who walk among us mere mortals. Sis ain’t ready for a god.”

Her sister is the worst.

“Oh c’mon. He’s been to a few slams. That’s all”.

Celia just grins and grabs the last slice of book launch cake. “Well, I think you should google him before you get too _slammed_ on him.” 

–

Mirai decides to google his name a week after the book launch.

It is not that she really needs to find out just how far out of her league Harry Styles is; she had already known the moment she saw his face in daylight, but it will do her good to get solid confirmation that girls like Mirai Gonzalo do not get guys like him, even if they have published a slim volume of poetry. No, girls like her are super-lucky to get a BA from CUNY and then end up with a boring admin job for a small non-profit organisation. She knows her place in the world and it does not include a YSL coat-wearing guy from London who is immediately recognisable to her sister and Khalid. She is just going to channel his calmness and confidence. Fake it until you make it, that was the New York way.

She is typing in his name when an email notification pops up. Who even emails anymore except scammers and spammers? Even her mom prefers to text.

 _Hi_  
_I bought your beautiful book last week and I wanted to thank you personally. I don’t know if you remember me, but you signed two copies of it: one for me and one for my sister. You have such a wonderful way with words and I am so glad I can read your poems whenever I want to._

 _All the best,_  
_H._

Mirai sits looking at her phone in disbelief.

Another buzz.

_Hi_

_Sorry, I got your email address off Mr Khalid Jones from The Word Shop. I should have said. I hope that is okay. He said you probably would not mind as long as I was not “creepy”._

_All the best,_  
_H._

Before she can stop herself, Mirai is typing a reply. She knows she sounds formal and weird, but her heart is pounding. 

**Hello,**

**Thank you for your very nice words. I am glad that you like the book and I hope your sister likes her present.**

She pauses and thinks.

**Khalid handing you my email address is unexpected, since I didn’t know he had it in the first place. But it is cool (and definitely not “creepy” — interesting choice of punctuation) and it is really nice hearing from you. Take care and - hey - poetry lovers unite.**

**Mirai.**

She shoves her phone under her pillow so she wouldn’t hear any notifications – or lack of same – for the rest of the night.

–

  
The lights are in her eyes again, so the crowd is just a blur. She knows he isn’t there, though. Harry isn’t up in the rafters leaning against the door frame, illuminated by the exit sign. He isn’t applauding her. He is somewhere in Europe, “travelling for work” according to his latest text.

Somehow Mirai and Mr YSL Coat have become buddies. It began with his kind notes the week after the book signing, and their friendship continued with him asking for book recommendations, and then emails became text messages filled with small observations about their everyday lives and fierce book discussions. She still hasn’t completed the google search for his name, still not wanting to know anything about his life outside of their small bookish friendship. And he hasn’t told her much except the occasional aside about his travels (he liked a certain cafe in Stockholm, Sweden; an air hostess on his Japan-bound flight had been very funny). After Harry revealed his undying love of pugs, she had started sending him links to dog videos.

Celia is waiting backstage with a bottle of water.

“Was that a new piece? I don’t think I’ve heard that before.”

Her sister has never been a poetry fan, but she does harbour a low-key crush on Joel, one of the other regular performers at the Basilica. Joel is currently curled up on the battered sofa, reading something to himself from his notebook. Mirai never quite knows what to make of him. His work is okay, but he always seems too cool to hang with her and her sister. Celia likes men who are clearly emotionally unavailable. Mirai may have written a poem about that.

“Yeah, Mike wanted something new.” Mirai sips her water, watching as the next performer walks on stage. The crowd is really good tonight. She wishes she could have done a second piece.

“Speaking of something new, you got flowers waiting for you.” Her sister gestures towards a big bouquet of orange and red tulips. “Who’s the admirer, babe? Please don’t tell me it’s Jordan from your work. Ugh, gross.”

Mirai knows who has bought her flowers. He had asked about her favourite flowers just last week, and at the time she had thought nothing of it. She opens the small envelope Celia was handing her..

_You got this. Go get them, brilliant poetry girl. H._

“Hang on, who is this?” Her sister looks over Mirai’s shoulder.

“You’ve met him, Celia. The guy at my book signing? The tall guy?”

Celia gasps. “What the actual .. My sis has Harry Styles sending her flowers?”

Joel looks up, suddenly aware of his surroundings.

“What? THE Harry Styles? How do you know him?”

Before Mirai can reply, Celia rolls her eyes. “Don’t be an idiot, Joel.”

Joel pulls out his phone and snaps a photo of the flowers. “So, why is Harry Styles sending you flowers? Are you guys dating?”

“It’s not the actual Harry Styles, asshole. It’s a guy who went to Mirai’s book signing – the one you didn’t attend as far as I remember, Joel. He’s cute, He’s called Harrison, and he has curly dark hair, so obviously we’ve nicknamed him Harry Styles. I just didn’t know they’d kept in touch.”

Celia has her corner, but Joel doesn’t look convinced.

“Word has it that Styles has been spotted in here a couple of times, but I thought that was just Mike talking shit, trying to stir up some vibe. Was he here for you, babe?”

“Yeah, keep telling yourself that Harry Fucking Styles is sending my sis flowers. What’s next? Beyonce having girls’ nights with us at Attaboy? Barack Obama sending me memes?”

Mirai’s phone buzzes with a text notification: _How did it go?_

She takes a photo of Joel looking pissy and Celia holding the flowers.

**This guy is being a dick.**

_Are you okay? Those are very nice flowers :)_

**It’s fine. Celia’s got him by the balls.**

**WTF, flowers? you big dork.**

_I thought flowers would be nice :)_

_How did the gig go? Bet you were great._

_Back in NYC in two weeks._

Behind her Joel and Celia are still flinging shit at each other. Mirai leans against the wall and takes a deep breath before texting,

**Hey, cool.**

\--

Thursday nights mean cheap cocktails at Attaboy.

Celia is on her second boozy slushie already, but Mirai is working a long shift tomorrow, so she is sticking to her cranberry mocktail.

“So, tell me about Harry.” Celia swirls her straw about and shoots her a look.

“There isn’t much to tell. He emailed me to say he liked my book. I said thank you. Basically I send him a lot of shit gifs of dogs and he ..“

“.. he sends you flowers, girl.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it? You didn’t google him, did you? You still have no idea who you are dealing with, do you?”

Sometimes Celia seems a lot more worldly despite being four years younger than Mirai. She pulls out her phone, types in a few words, and passes it to Mirai without saying a word.

Harry, the YSL Coat Man and pug enthusiast, is looking back at her. Celia had found a photo gallery of _Harry Styles’ 135 Most Iconic Lewks_ and he is wearing a very outrageous pink suit in the photo. Mirai begins scrolling through the gallery. A tanned Harry with Rihanna. Harry with Taylor Swift and a baby. A confident-looking Harry with an ex-US president. Harry holding awards. Harry at a film premiere. Harry pouting with long hair  & a lace shirt. Harry looking very young in a onesie.

“Who is he, Celia?” Mirai is regretting her no-alchohol policy.

“He is fucking hot property, honey. Singer, actor, songwriter, you name it. He dates models, Kardashians, and Taylor Swift. Over 20 million followers on Instagram. I’ve kept tabs on him ever since he showed up at your signing. He’s so out of the Gonzalo league that it hurts.”

Mirai looks down at the phone again. She feels sad and confused.

“He’s back in NYC next week, Cee.”

“Are you meeting him?”

“I don’t know. He hasn’t mentioned anything about that.”

“Oh god, Mirai. You are so fucking stupid sometimes.”

–

Mirai looks at herself in the mirror.

She is short and slight, just like her mom. Her skin is light brown and she’s got her dad’s brown eyes. Her hair is all her own, though. It is straight, dark and cut in a severe bob. Her face isn’t pretty: her nose is slightly upturned, her cheekbones are too high and her mouth is way too wide. She doesn’t care too much about clothes, wearing the usual NYC uniform of black whatever-everything for work. She likes her freckles the best, but they are only visible during summer.

Why is a guy like Harry Styles interested in her?

_Would you like to meet me for coffee on Thursday? My treat :)_

The text message arrived thirty minutes ago and she is yet to answer it.

Following the conversation with Celia at the bar, Mirai finally googled Harry herself. She has spent her last few evenings watching videos of him from when he was just a young hopeful kid on a talent show to a confident man killing it on stage. She finds it difficult to reconcile the rock star on the red carpet with the low-key guy who likes her poetry and sends her long, witty ramblings about the books he is reading. And yet they are the same.

She looks at her mirror image again, trying to be honest with herself. She doesn’t want the world to intrude on whatever it is that they have going. Mirai admits to herself that she has a crush. She’s imagined herself curled up with that tall, dark stranger on her old sofa. She’s imagined him standing in the wings of her first big solo show, his reassuring arms around her as she stepped off the stage, and his voice softly telling her how proud he was. She’s imagined walking through East River Park holding his hand, laughing and talking. She had imagined them getting takeaway coffee and taking photos of street art.

She had imagined a whole lot of things and all those things had been based on a silhouette. Then she had met him, briefly, and she’d learned that he was famous, rich, and super-talented. Way, way out of her league.

But they had also become text buddies and book buddies. And now maybe coffee buddies. Maybe.

She has a crush. 

–

He is younger looking than she remembers. It is spring now and he is now wearing a sweatshirt rather than a big, expensive coat. Mirai still likes his laugh.

They spend an hour in The Word Shop shooting the breeze with Khalid. Khalid and Mirai improvise a flow – words and sentences flying back and forth – and Mirai has never felt this free in her life. When she wraps up a particularly tricky rhyme progression and Khalid groans in defeat, Harry flies out of the shop’s armchair with a big grin and applauds wildly.

“That was fantastic! I feel privileged to be in the presence of greatness.”

She cannot quite describe how he makes her feel, but she knows that when he leaves NYC again, he will be taking a small piece of her with him. Khalid winks at her as they leave.

The coffee shop next door does amazing Americanos, and Mirai chooses a table at the back where they are unlikely to be noticed. He sits down and she think he looks like he belongs there among the colourful gig posters, the plastic cutlery, and the rickety chairs. He feels solid, calm, and real.

“My sister made me google you.” Mirai tells him.

His face looks older for a fraction of a second, and his shoulders tense slightly. Suddenly he looks like the young modern god she has seen in photos. His short, curly hair frames his face with the strong jawline, his clear eyes, and slightly parted lips. It is a mask.

“She wanted me to know.”

He takes a sip of the coffee and does not meet her eyes. “And .. ?”

She leans back and looks away at the barista flirting with a customer. Music is playing but it is too faint to make out what it is. Mirai will probably remember this moment for the rest of her life.

“And I think that we are not our jobs.” She finally decides on her words. “I work in a stupid office typing things into spreadsheets, but that not who I am. I am not spreadsheet girl. I am Mirai Catalina Gonzalo who writes poetry and likes Japanese food. And I do not think you are your job either. You are still just a guy who reads really questionable books and tells me terrible jokes about carrots.”

Her eyes come back to his. He is no longer a young god among mortals, the mask has slipped away again. His hands are curled around the coffee mug, and he looks thoughtful as his teeth worries his lower lip. The barista cracks a joke behind them and she can hear girls laughing. Time moves slowly.

And then she hears him taking a breath.

His voice is soft and deep as he recites her own words back at her:

 _“You said we looked /_  
_like scraps of paper..”_

And then he smiles like the sun.

 _“.. but I know that we are /_  
_a book waiting to be written.”_


End file.
